Dragon Age Origins: The Tainted and the Fallen
by T.J ShooterTheSecond
Summary: Every Origin is present in addition to a slew of original characters. The blight was never meant to be clean-cut. A continuation of a forgotten story.
1. Chapter 1

To say the soil of Thedes ran solid to its very core would be a foolish notion. To say that nothing beyond unmovable dirt and unbreakable stone laid below the surface world would, too, be a foolish notion: the simple fact, was that the sturdy dwarven folk had long since laid claim to Thedes sub-terrain.

They had smashed, they had built, they had dug and they had sculpted. The dwarven folk were true craftsman and peerless innovators - the stone and dirt was their own, and they commanded it so.

Tunnels were built, more spacious than any would deem necessary, stretching to places once known, yet now lost and forgotten. And the thaigs; kingdoms of carved stone and unparalleled fortitude erected as a testament to time - still they stand strong, even out lasting the inhabitants who once walked behind their walls.

Truly the underground of Thedes was hollow, excavated and bustling with life as it was.

Magnificence in all senses.

But time is a harsh mistress, harsh and unforgiving. It brings about inevitable change, the change of everything.

Like the disease it was, the darkspawn spread. Twisting, corrupting, and destroying everything in their path. Where they truly came from . . . nobody knew. Myths and stories attempted to explain their origins, but none held the real truth. These were tales spun with little more than greed and worship in mind.

The truth though, and perhaps the only one that mattered, was that the darkspawn were unstoppable. They swarmed the deep roads tunnels, digging deeper and deeper, searching and spreading their taint.

Taint that desired the song: the call of the Old Gods.

Buried further than the stout dwarven folk dare dig, slept the powerful and ancient Tevinter gods, worshiped as the bringers of magic in the bodies of mighty dragons.

Or so the rumors go.

The darkspawn, mindless and crazed as they were, cared not for what those gods once garnered, they cared only for the unquenchable desire of the song. It called to them, drew them closer like a sweet ecstasy only they could indulge in.

And so they dug with claws and hands and gnashing teeth, until the Old Gods were found and washed over with the very taint each darkspawn holds.

Twisted beyond recognition the Old Gods rose, as Archdemons.

Dumat was the first. The god of silence wrought nothing but death and corruption, leading the darkspawn to war. One after one the dwarven kingdoms fell. Walls once thought to be impenetrable crashed down and the dwarven armies were left slaughtered, returned to the stone from which they came.

And with the once mighty race in shambles, being pushed to the brink of annihilation, even the vast Deep Roads themselves conquered, did Dumat turn its attention to the surface.

The Darkspawn did not hesitate as they marched to face the forces of Thedes at the Archdemon's behest. They struck quickly, emerging from the Deep Roads and spreading across the land like wildfire, destroying and twisting everything that couldn't move. The trees, the grass and the very dirt itself was corrupted by the taints touch.

And those that could move, they stood and fought. Age after age, man and elf struggled in vain to repel and defeat the invasion.

Centuries passed as generations of brave men and women fought and died to stem the tide.

The Blight was relentless.

Until an order of seasoned warriors took in the darkspawn blood, filling their being with the very taint they sought to defeat.

The Grey Wardens were formed on that day. The finest warriors the lands of Thedes had ever seen. They descended upon the darkspawn, riding on the wings of mighty griffons, each Warden standing their own against a dozen Darkspawn.

One cause and one duty.

They fought to defeat the Darkspawn.

And defeat them they did. Dumat was slain and the Wardens carved their own legend. And when the Old Gods rose another three times throughout the ages, another three more times did the Grey Wardens push back and vanquish the unending wave of Blight, plucking each Archdemon from the sky and ending its reign.

Peace slowly ensued and the darkspawn slowly retreated, back to the tunnels to seek out another Old God. Relentlessly they followed the song. And come the time when the Grey Wardens were all but forgotten, the sacrifices they had made all but ignored, was Urthemiel, the dragon of beauty, taken by the taint and woken to usher in a new age of Blight.

The very moment that Archdemon woke it let out an unworldly roar, the likes of which the deep roads had sorely forgotten.

The very stone itself shook and rattled, crumbling down from brittle walls and weak rock alike as the roar echoed down tunnel after tunnel, coming to a faint end at what was a sphere like cavern, with little but moss covered walls and cracked walls – wounds that oozed trickles of water. And, surprisingly for those darkspawn infested roads, sitting just shy of the center was the only living creature for leagues: a lone dwarf.

With one very unique limb: a pitch black arm - clearly demonic - with razor sharp claws, not unlike those of an animal, and dense, thick scaled skin.

The mysterious dwarf sat upon the dirt floor and listened to the bellowing god. He could hear the thinly veiled words.

The compulsion to obey was growing stronger. But, there was something fighting for him. It was soothing, like a mother. It sung softly yet ever louder than the Old God. The dwarf closed his eyes and listened.

Before him the lyrium writhed. Two twisting roots spiraled around the other, twisting and twisting to the roof. He had liked to think of them as the caverns support pillar – two strong beams, joined in an effort to hold up the earth. Still, he knew the truth.

The Archedemon roared again, the cavern caught the thundering sound and rocked, and the vein responded; it danced and sung.

As the tremors ceased and the veins soft singing – the fight for dominance had been won again – returned to a steady a hum, the dwarf's arm throbbed. Not in pain, he noticed, but in recognition. Like a beacon the tainted arm drew a familiar entity through the caverns roof.

It was no man, nor woman, and neither was it living: it was a wisp. The entity, better suited to the realms of the Fade, swayed back and forth as its glowing, cloud like body rolled and stretched out, before condensing again to its original shape. The Lyrium vein welcomed it's presence with its ever soft voice – singing words that mortal ears can never comprehend.

Slowly the wisp floated down to join the dwarf. Then, as if communicating in its own language, the wisp began moving from side to side erratically, mist spiking out before gradually, slowly, rejoining with the thick, cloudy center.

And the dwarf nodded, answering the wisp's convulsions. "Yes, I believe it is happening," he said. His voice was quiet - restrained almost.

The wisp slowly rose to the dwarf's eye level, mist like body rolling and condensing in on itself. It swayed to and fro, dancing before the dwarf, who only sighed and closed his eyes, to hide away the sadness, or maybe the tiny twinge of relief, in his gaze, the demonic limbed dwarf couldn't guess. But he hoped it was the former. "I am sorry my friend. I owe you much. And by the stone may you find what you seek, but my time has come. I can feel it now more than ever. There's no going back this time."

Another roar echoed around the pair, and, not a second later, the wisp shot off faster than prying eyes could follow, disappearing through the stone roof from whence it came.

The lyrium caught the roar and sung.

But this time it was not enough; the vein screamed in what the dwarf knew as pain. The two beams danced and glowed the brightest they had ever glowed in hundreds of years.

Then there was the sound of shattering glass as one Lyrium vein could take no more and exploded into a rain of blue light. The Archedemon screamed in triumph; the remaining spirals song faded to nothing.

"Curious, isn't it?" a voice, not so unfamiliar to the dwarf, said.

An elderly man stood beside the dwarf. He was hunch backed, and clad in an intricate purple robe. Despite the old man appearing from nothing, as if seemingly blinking into existence, the dwarf didn't break his stare from the remaining lyrium vein. "So lost, yet not knowing what it is it seeks," the old man continued, taking his gaze to the dwarf, "not very different from yourself. Elusive things aren't they?" The robed man gestured to the open air. "It's amazing the connection you hold and the effect it has. Baffling to even myself." The old man turned and looked to the caverns entrance. "Truly one of a kind."

And just as the old man had arrived, he abruptly blinked out of existence.

Alone again the demonic limbed dwarf rose, finally, and reluctantly, taking his gaze from the caverns center piece.

There would be no more sleep. No more peace.

And no more singing.


	2. Chapter 2

Castle Cousland, at least as far as he was concerned, had become cursed to experience peril after peril after peril. And it wasn't just a simple curse, no; it had to be the curse of a bygone Witch. A Hedge Witch who'd been wronged by one of the mighty and just Cousland ancestors. Now, that was to say these ancestors were made of the very best stuff. There was Maron Cousland who'd led the slaughter of an entire Chasind tribe due to a difference in tax limits - truly the stuff of legends, that day. Then, there was Simmion Cousland known not only for his sexual prowess, but also the silver tongue he waggled at the other nobles during Landsmeets and court hearings alike.

Yet, if you asked the right people, you'd find that those ancestors were indeed backstabbing tyrants, with naught better to do than fill goblets and sire twenty-three bastards. Bastards who'd one day murder those wine-drinking, whore-slappers in hope of claiming a throne and fortune, and, of course, they'd also unintendedly claim a cycle that would repeat again - generation after generation.

That was the beauty of nobility. It was the right of the powerful. And, it was also the bane of every Cousland that had to follow. Lucky for those Couslands though; Fereldens were an uneducated bunch. The dung ridden peasants lapped up whatever you threw infront of them.

So, one could say, it meant history wasn't always set in the cobblestone. History could, in fact, be bent left, right and any damn which way it was needed. Like a fine ash bow it would bend to suit the purpose, and then bend right back after the deed was done.

Old man Aldous was anything but thorough in the lectures he held, Seth Coulsand realized.

Maker.

Poor Aldous.

:~:

"Ah! And here comes my son," Bruce Cousland said with a tip of his greyed haired chin and a broad smile. "Come to join the festivities, Pup?"

"Oh, I doubt the boy has a mature bone in his body. Do you think him capable of drinking with the men, Bryce?" and that was Howe. Howe who'd showed up an hour earlier drenched in mud sniffling like the old man he was inevitably becoming.

Seth looked from his father to Howe. Howe still had a little smudge of brown across his forehead, Seth noticed.

The young noble threw both arms out in an exaggerated bow as he said, "I think my days of drinking are coming to something of a peak. I'm at my best, Howe."

"Your best? Barely a day over twenty-one and he's already up there with the seasoned professionals. What tales are you telling the boy, Bryce?"

"Only those of our most valiant crusades, my old friend."

Seth took a step forward, inching closer to the massive fireplace both Howe and Bryce stood infront of. He could feel the heat sinking through his leather jerkin. Flaps of material hung from the roof in colors of orange and red and the brightest of yellows. Long oaken tables, big enough to fit thirty men, were arranged down the gathering halls length. Three large kegs of ale sat untapped by the grand double-door entrance. There would be drinking tonight, the servants had gone to great lengths to make the atmosphere as hearty as possible.

Bryce Cousland cleared his throat, "Pup," he said, "would you tell your brother he's to ride out ahead of myself tonight?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"We already discussed this, Pup, quite thoroughly, in fact. Do not make a scene again."

"I'm not making a _scene_ ; I want to know why Fergus is leaving so soon?"

Howe's face did not move from its usual saggy, pale, doughy look. He sniffed through his crooked nose. "My men are delayed by the weather. Travel some miles from here and you will see what I mean. We cannot control the weather, boy."

"Pup," Bryce broke in, "go and find your brother." Seth knew his father wasn't asking anymore.

Yet. . .

Without thought Seth broke eye contact and looked ahead to the door on the opposite side of the room. The handle turned, and a man stepped through. He was tall, and strong, and armored, and proud. Two swords were slung across his back; a dagger at his waist and, if Seth had to guess by the bulge above the man's ankle, an even smaller dagger was tucked into his boot. The man looked fit to take down an entire platoon.

The look in those black eyes though, it was something else entirely.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything?" the man said, looking between the three. Seth thought he could hear a slight Rivian accent trying to break free.

Bryce began smiling again. It was the smile he saved for the Landsmeet. "Not at all, Duncan," he said. "Howe, Pup - allow me to introduce Duncan, Grey Warden Commander." Nobody noticed Howe's eyes bulge, and nobody noticed Seth's girlish squeal. A Grey Warden. Actually, not just a Grey Warden, the _Commander_ of the Grey Wardens.

"Sir, it's a pleasure," Seth said, stretching out a hand as the warden came to a stop.

"You must be the young Seth Cousland, your father speaks highly of you," Duncan replied taking a firm hold.

"Not so highly I'd see him off in your care," Bryce interjected, without a drop of humor.

Duncan let out a haughty laugh. "You needn't worry, my Teryn," he said. "I'm sure your keep holds many potential recruits."

Seth had always been a curious boy. Nan, the aged cook, could attest to the endless question he had bombarded her with during his childhood. "You're looking for recruits?" he said,"Ser Gilmore will have a fit knowing that."

"Yes, your father has spoken very highly of Ser Gilmore," Duncan agreed, and then spread his lips in a smile that speaks of a much younger man. "Rumor has it,' Duncan said,' you can win a match against him in twelve counts?"

"In Rory's defense, he hadn't slept that night." Seth felt giddy basking in the praise the way a fat lizard lazes in the burning sun.

Bryce cleared his throat. Loudly. "Pup, I still want you to see your brother."

Even for a twenty-one year old, Seth could pout like the best. "Yes, Father."

The men exchanged farewells and promises to see one another that night, except for one – Howe – who instead grumped and grumbled about young noble sons whose trouser were too big.

:~:

His legs carrying him at a slow walk Seth exited the Gathering hall through a side door and sauntered up the cobblestone hallway, hands locked behind his head and eyes staring up to the sky. It was a clear blue day, no clouds in sight and no chance of sudden rain as far as he can tell, anyway.

It was a good day.

"It's a good day, isn't it, my Lord?"

Seth looked down at the voice and swayed on his feet. "I don't know what Howe was whining about, Rory," Seth said. "I really don't."

Ser Gilmore stood at a wide corner in the keeps walls – through the door ahead was the library and Aldous's domain; to the right the path continues into the castle's main intersection – and standing close behind him to the slightest right and just enough to obscure himself from attention, was Terrance. Terrance, Seth thought, seemed to be a simple enough lad. Young for one - sixteen or seventeen – with blond hair and a thin frame. The boy regarded everyone with the same wide brown eyes. Which is exactly what he was doing at that moment, dressed in his simple squire padding and leathers, which were of course spotless and straight; Seth knows Ser Gilmore wouldn't have it any other way. In the coming years Terrance will just be another of the guard.

"Your hound's been hassling the cook again, my Lord," Rory said.

"Rory, for the hundredth time, you can call me Seth. I doubt Terrance'll tell anyone. You wouldn't would you, Terrance?"

The boy squirmed under Seth's eye before he managed a quivery: "No, my Lord."

"See, Rory? No reason to be so formal."

"If you insist, "Ser Gilmore stopped to choke on the next word, "Seth." The young noble tipped his chin and raised two fingers to his mouth, sticking them in he let out a sharp, long whistle. For a few seconds there was silence; then a woof; a scream; a slammed door; Nan swearing; the sound of padded feet thundering across the ground and then finally a jet black Mabari rounded the corner. Seth was already yelling out to the Mabari. "Who's a good boy?" The hound got to the noble's feet and dropped to roll around. "Who's got a. . . dead rat in his mouth?" to the question the hound spat the rat at Seth's feet and woofed. "Oh! For me? But I just ate, Tennant. Maybe someone else might want it?" The Mabari, Tennant, scooped the rodent up in his powerfully muscled jaws and looked between Rory and Terrance. As if fighting an internal debate the hounds head swung between the squire and knight – the rats limp one did, too. Finally the hound decided on the squire and dropped the rat at Terrance's feet.

"Thank you, Tennant." The hound barked excitedly and bounced about.

Seth laughed. Ser Gilmore grimaced. Terrance picked the still bleeding rodent up by the tail and looked ready to lose his breakfast.

Ser Gilmore regained his composure first and crossed his hands behind his back in a classic guard stance. "We will continue our duties, if you would allow?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. Of course."

The knight, squire and dead rat continued down the corridor.

Seth watched them go until they were well and truly out of sight before he continued his own journey. He passed two guards who both gave the same greeting; _Good evening, my Lord_. Then, on pure spontaneous-why-not, he also took a quick detour to the treasury knowing that without a doubt guard master Yevon would be overseeing a business-like game of cards amongst the bored soldiers.

:~:

Seth stepped through the treasuries already open door. His leather boots didn't make a squeak, even Tennant turned surprisingly cat like. To Seth's left sits the heavy bolted door, which once unlocked through a key, and a fancy puzzle few knew, would open to a room filled with gems, gold, and priceless family heirlooms. Ahead was a table built for four that currently held six focused and straight-faced men. And standing at the tables end like a keen hawk watching a school of fish swim below the rivers surface was Yevon – all beard and scars and gruff. According to Bryce Cousland, the man has been around for so long everyone's forgotten when he actually squired. Even Aldous the great and knowledgeable has forgotten.

Still silent and unseen Seth almost casually joined Yevon at the tables head. And the old fool hadn't even noticed him ye-

"Afternoon, my young Lord Seth."

Seth's shoulders slumped. "One day I'll get the jump on you," he said, sounding deflated.

Yevon barked out laughter. "I've dealt with many a Cousland in my time." The blond moustache wiggled from Yevon's grin. "You all assume you've gotten away with it and relax."

"Do you remember who it is that's gotten the closest over these years?"

"Even if I was keeping track, I'd not tell you either way."

"You're a harsh man," Seth said, and then without breath, "Did you know a Grey Warden's here?"

"I am the Master of the Guard, my Lord. Nothing happens in this castle without me knowing." One guard groaned and kicked out at the table leg. _Three queens, blind man's duff. Poor bastard,_ Seth mused. "Young Gilmore seemed insistent on patrol duty once he found out."

Seth frowned. "He knows? He didn't say anything to me."

"You know what he's like," a hand waved about in the air, "it's always about the duty."

Seth took his eyes off the card game and faced Yevon completely. The bearded man did the same. "I've got a favor to ask," Seth said. "Could I persuade you to give Gilmore the night off?"

"Why?"

"I need his help with something."

Yevon considered it for a time. His thick eyebrows were knitted together, and occasionally his beard trembled. Finally, he nodded. "Aye. If you insist."

"Thanks-"

"But, you will owe me," Yevon said. "And I always get what I'm owed."

"Thanks, Yevon." The older man waved him off, returning his attention to the card game.

:~:

Outside the treasury, again walking with no purpose or direction, Seth found himself deep in thought. He was focused on one particular thought which had arrived with two pitch fork armed farmers that morning. Bar that day, with Howe and the Warden arriving, not much broke the day to day mold of Castle Cousland.

The young noble had sunk so low into his own mind he barely noticed his mother calling. "Seth! Seth! Come here and say hello."

Up ahead and shouting his name was Eleanor Cousland. His mother. Her grey hair was pulled back into a tight little bun and she was wearing a splendid lavender dress. She seemed happy - overly so.

Another voice called out in greeting. "Ah, it's been sometime, Seth, " and then, "my how you've grown."

Seth thanked Leandra with a warm smile. The older woman blushed heavily. Her maid blushed heavily. Even her son blushed heavily. Eleanor noticed the trio and rolled her eyes.

Eleanor Cousland had grown beyond blushing.

"We must get going; wouldn't you say so, my dear?" The eleven girl – Leandra's maid – fidgeted. Seth figured she was uncomfortable with such niceties. But the pretty thing nodded, then bowed, and left a step behind her lady.

Darrion, curly red hair and ill matching red shirt, shook Seth's hand with a grip that would turn most women sour. "I hope to see you again before we leave, Seth." And then Darrion, too, took leave.

Seth waited until all three guests were 'round a corner and gone before he said, "I really hope we don't, Darrion. I really hope we don't."

"Oh, don't be so harsh on the boy. He's allowed his preferences," Eleanor scolded, pointed finger and all. Soon though, she relaxed and Seth could see just how haggard her once youthful and vibrant face had become. Some had said she could pass for a woman half her age, now though, with deep wrinkles and heavy bags under her eyes, Eleanor looked to be a woman fit for bed rest and nothing else. Something had been eating at his mother. Seth didn't know what. Nor did he plan on finding out.

"Have you seen Fergus?" The two were completely alone in the keeps center – known as the Parafew.

"In his room. With Orriana and Oren, I believe. Why do you ask?"

"Father wants him to ride out with the army ahead of schedule."

"What of Howe?"

"Apparently the weather got the better of his men."

Eleanor looked off into the distance. "I have a bad feeling, Seth."

"About what exactly?"

"A mother never knows, darling. She has her feelings and braces for them as best she can." Eleanor smiled, and when she did, the wear and stress wash away for what might have been a handful of seconds. Eleanor Cousland looked like herself again.

"Go speak with Fergus," she said.

And so he did.

:~:

Half way through Seth's sarcastic banter with his brother - in actuality it was hardly sarcastic, all that the two knew involved witty stabs, that's how brothers talk about things they don't want to talk about - the father himself walked through the door. Eleanor, as well, quickly followed.

And so it went that the Cousland family said their goodbyes ( _I'll bring back the biggest sword I can find, Oren_ ); laughed at wit filled banter ( _I'm sure Darrion would like a little extra warmth tonight, Seth_ ); and otherwise avoided the gut wrenching dread they all felt but couldn't quite explain ( _Be careful, Fergus. Promise me you'll be careful, my love?_ ).

All, that was, except for Seth. For he was told by father, brother, and mother alike to go to bed, get an early night, and rise with the roosters.

The young noble had better ideas, though.

In the darkness, dressed in leather pants, a cotton shirt and fine boots that reached half-way to his knee, Seth Cousland whistled his way to the Parafew – the tune came slowly; when he last heard it he still couldn't reach the top shelf.

"Why did you call me here?" And that was Ser Gilmore - still wrapped in the standard steel plate of the Castle Cousland guard.

"Don't be such a hard ass, Rory. You've got to be curious about him too."

"Who? The warden? "

Seth smiled and held up a large ring, on which there is close to sixty keys. He gave it a jingle.

Yevon was quick, but he wasn't that quick.

"You were there when they bought him in, remember? He was all smiles and jokes. Blues eyes? Black tussled hair?"

". . . The mage?"

Seth grinned wide and brightly. Illuminated by the surrounding torches he looked positively devilish. And Ser Gilmore could attest to how true a statement that was. He saw that grin the same night Seth put a handful of Dix leaves (Laxatives) in Aldous's tea. He'd seen it the morning Seth dressed the hounds in the latest of women's gowns; gowns worth twelve sovereigns a piece. And Ser Gilmore had seen it one week prior, when the man, who still acted like a boy, replaced Teryn Cousland's ink with pigs blood.

Rory knew Seth planned on doing something no self-respecting noble should do.


	3. Chapter 3

Seth was setting a fast pace through the courtyard, his eyes kept darting back and forth, waiting for someone to shout out his name, waiting for someone to ask what he was doing. Rory himself doubted any of that would happen, so he instead walked casually behind. The knight enjoyed the quiet. Moments he might-

"Maker, Seth! Will you stop that dog from pissing on everything!"

"He's just making sure we don't get lost." Tennant gave an affirmative bark. Ser Gilmore resigned to acceptance.

Seth started to slow as something caught his eye. To the left was the Gathering hall doors. They were two large oaken slabs with simple metal bands. He could imagine burly men dressed in their armor, weighed down by chainmail, strung about the place. They would be snoring, drunk and at a complete bliss. _At least Howe's good for something,_ he thought.

The young noble, knight, and hound all stood in front of those large doors; all thinking different thoughts. One wanted to see the mage. The other wanted to turn around and go to bed. And the last was mostly concerned with pissing on the closest wall.

Ahead and to the left was a single door. Despite its unassuming appearance, everyone in the Highever area, from the smallest boy to the deafest old woman, knew it led to a labyrinth of tunnels that lay beneath the keep. The western tunnels are used for storage. The eastern collapsed before Seth's time. And, lastly, to the north and beyond three more locked and barred doors, was the dungeon.

:~:

The last door unlocked with a clunk and swung open with a rusty and all-round skin crawling squeal.

Ser Gilmore scrunched his face up. "Where's the guard? Someone is supposed to be down here at all times."

Seth, hitching the key-ring to his pants, spoke as he walked, without turning back. "He joined the festivities up top. Makes sense," he says." The only person down here is the mage, and he was brought in by mud covered villagers with wooden pitchforks."

"You do know that the Chantry tells us magic is dangerous?"

"The Chantry tells us lots of things."

Ser Gilmore, Seth knew, was a pious man. But the red-haired knight conceded with a simple frown and the three continued on towards the last room.

The tunnel started to widen into a room with six barred doors; three along each side of the room. At the very far end and to the right, a curious blue light illuminated all of the stone.

A voice called out, Seth thought it almost sounded amused. "If that's the Templars out there," a pause," I'm making no promises you won't get a little singed. 'Specially you, Barry."

Seth looks back at Rory and saw a slew of emotions – nervousness, fear, anger, and, very obvious uncomfortableness – and realized he himself hadn't felt this excited in quite some time. His mind was clear, empty, and free. So, with a steady breath, he put both hands on his waist and approached the last cell. Looking the very picture of nonchalant.

Inside the cell sitting cross-legged on the uneven stone floor was a man. He looked a bit more haggard then he did when Seth first saw him – scratches, torn clothing, bags under his eyes, a foul shit-like smell – but those ice-blue eyes still seemed to glow, and almost grin, at the same time.

 _He's scared_ , Seth thought. Yet, not so scared he, the mage, wasn't going to have a little fun.

The mage looked Seth up and down, taking time to run over the simple clothing he wore. "Huh, I leave for a week and Greagoir brings in casual dress day? I always miss out on the fun stuff," the mage said, practically pouting.

Seth hid a smile; he could get to like this mage. "Do you really think a Templars pay could afford these boots?" Seth said.

"Probably not," the mage replied with an accompanying shrug. "It's not like I know my way around fashion, anyway. We mages don't get anything but robes and loafers."

Seth glanced back at Ser Gilmore and could see that the knight was ready to leave. Tennant, Seth had been able to read the hound like a book for years now, was looking at the man with a curiosity he usually reserves for bath time: Tennant loves bath time.

Seth flicked his hand towards the entrance door. "Rory, go and keep watch."

"Gladly."

Seth caught Tennant's attention next, pointed at the doorway and said guard. The hound did as he was told.

He looked back at the mage. _Was that a flash of. . . relief I saw then?_ he found himself thinking.

"How are you making this light?" Seth asked, as he lowered himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of the iron bars. He could feel the cold cut straight through to his ass cheeks.

"Magic," the mage said. There wasn't much humor left in his voice now.

"What else can you-"

 _Dong_

 _Dong-Dong_

 _Dong-Dong-Dong_

Seth's whole body felt a tremor akin to pain as the noise rocked through him. Each time the bell rung it got a little quieter. Soon the chime fell to a low whisper. And Seth just stared. In the silence of his own panic, Seth could do nothing but stare ahead. He could see the mage looking into the darkness beyond – his eyes were so sharp.

Tennant was barking, and growling.

Seth thought the thudding he could hear was his own heart racing in panic, but when a figure appeared before him, sweating, ghost white, and tried to shake him back to reality, he realized the noise, faded to nothing now, was only Rory's boots on the floor.

"Seth! Seth we have to move! _Now_!" Rory shouted, shaking Seth by the shoulders. Tennant was whining at the doorway two cell doors back.

The young noble felt a pressure bearing down on him. And the ringing! Maker! The ringing was all he could hear.

"What the hell is going on? What does the bell mean?"

Rory ignored the mage and grabbed Seth's arm. "Dammit, Seth! I will drag you out if I have too."

And all at once sound came crashing back. Like a wave it washed over Seth and his mind snapped to attention.

 _Clarity, boy_ , Yevon said inside his mind.

Then he was up and sprinting into the darkness on legs that must've possessed a mind of their own. He knew Tennant and Rory would be right behind him, and he could hear the mage yelling: "Somebody tell me what the hell is going on!"

Seth didn't notice the lack of jingling at his waist.

:~:

When Seth came to the stairs that would lead from the Highever Labyrinths to the courtyard, he could hear the sounds of fighting – shouting, screaming, the sound of metal clashing upon metal. Yet the young noble didn't hesitate. He cleared the stairs in three steps and burst through the closed door like a cannonball. One man, dressed in plain grey chainmail, had just enough time to raise an arm up before the thick oaken door sent him sprawling unto the ground. Seth ignored him, knowing Tennant would make short work of the prone man before he could get up.

Ahead, from the west corridor to the east, the castle burned. The courtyard itself was full of men and women, some bore the Cousland mark and others bore none, but they all clashed with a whole slew of different weapons.

Seth took note of one soldier in plain armor about three meters ahead and started running again. He weaved about the other skirmishes and leaped over the bodies of those that were dead or dying, making a beeline for the soldier, the soldier who still hadn't seen him coming. When the unsuspecting man finally looked up, his eyes widen at the sight of the young man who charged towards him. Mouth contorting into a cry the man started to raise his sword, but it was far too late. Seth didn't slow in the slightest, his body twisted to the right, around the slowly extending blade, and he let his left hand fly out as he pivoted on one foot. The soldier took the blow to the back of the head, spitting out a mouthful of saliva from the force. Seth then reached out with his other hand, griping the half-conscious soldier by the back of his collar, heaving and launching him into the stone floor. If the fighting hadn't been so loud Seth would've heard the sound of three ribs snapping.

Seth almost had a memory of the mage ( _Do you think a Templars pay could. . ._ ) as he slammed the expensive heel of his boot into the soldiers face. When the soldier went to lift his arm, Seth slammed his heel down again. Whatever had been there before was now a red hole of mush.

The arm, now limp as the rest of the soldier, dropped the blade it had been gripping.

"Behind you!"

Seth dove over the unconscious soldier, collecting the plain longsword as he rolled. He turned and rose quickly, only to see Rory blaze through the crowd and bash his heavy shield into the side of the enemy soldier who'd nearly gotten the drop on the young noble. There was no time for the man to scream.

Seth, now armed, turned and made his way through the battle. A few meters infront he could make out the eastern corridor. The fire there was too strong to pass through; he could feel the heat from where he stood.

So instead he pushed his way through the crowd, towards the relatively unharmed western hall. Most of the fighting soldiers took no notice of him in the chaos.

Just as Seth neared the giant oaken doors that lead to the gathering hall, two soldiers dressed in plain chainmail broke free from the pack. The closest one lunged, then thrust, but Seth parried both blows with reflexes his brother had once called inhuman. He flicked another strike up, took a step forward, and grabbed ahold of the soldier's throat. The soldier threw his sword arm down, only to have it bang uselessly on Seth's shoulder. Seth waited until the panicking soldier brought his arm down a second time, and when he did, Seth released his grip, spun, and took hold of his opponent by the wrist. With a good hold on the soldier's sword arm, Seth bent, lurching forward, he pulled hard on the arm over his shoulder. The soldier's feet left the ground and he was launched viciously over the Cousland.

The young noble heard the air _woosh_ out of the man's lungs and saw the soldier's sword leave his hand, flinging straight up into the air.

The other soldier advanced.

Seth reached out with his left hand and caught the blade as it came close to making a full rotation. The motion was smooth and well-practiced.

Now he felt the weight of both blades – they were not his own, and weren't weighted to his hand – but it felt right. He felt fast.

The soldier charged forward. He was too slow. Seth lunged, right blade forward, and flicked the coming blow to the side, then, without breaking pace, ran the soldier through at the throat. He came face to face with the dying soldier, pivoted, spun, and pulled his blade free. In the next instant he was around the limp but still standing body and sprinting through the open corridor.

Rory and Tennant were close behind, drenched in blood – none of which was their own.

:~:

The pace Seth was setting was matched only by the loyal Mabari hound as his side. Ahead and to the right was the Parafew. A few meters to the left was the treasury. Seth didn't think twice about going left.

He needed to get to the Parafew, from there he could reach the families chambers, and then he could see-

His throat hitched and he slowed, fighting the panic and the fear. He could feel his entire body trembling. Seth tried to convince himself it was adrenaline, it was just his body keeping him ready. But he knew better: he was so damn scared of what he was going to find.

Four figures rounded the corner that led to the treasury and Seth's mind again fell into that eerier silence ( _Clarity, boy_ ). He brought both blades to his sides and charged.

"Seth?"

The voice broke down everything, the clarity the rage the fear, and brought tears and a stabbing pain in his chest – it was pain worse than any wound – but it was a good pain, and he welcomed the tears as well.

"Mother!" Seth shouted as he swept her up in a tight hug. Gone was her lavender dress. Instead she wore tanned leathers. Upon the cuffs and seams was the Cousland symbol. Upon her back was a simple ash bow.

Seth held her tightly, and in the moment, he felt everything slip away like the bad dream it was. Soon he would wake, drenched in sweat, but alone in his bed.

"Seth, where is your father?"

He continued holding her.

Behind him Rory came to a stop, Seth could hear the sigh of relief. "Terrance!" Ser Gilmore shouted.

The young, fair-haired boy nodded his pale head, but didn't speak. Rory acknowledged the other two soldiers; they didn't speak, as well.

"Seth," Eleanor said again," where is your father?"

He let her go – it was hard, so, so hard – and took up the blades he'd dropped. "He was with Duncan and Howe."

Eleanor staggers back as if she had been struck and the blood drains from her face. She must've seen Seth's confusion. "These are Howe's men, darling," she said. "He's betrayed your father."

The words rammed into him. He could feel his mind rejecting them, overriding them with memories of Howe stringing his, Seth's, bow before a hunt; of Howe pinching his ear too hard then picking him up and carrying him on his shoulders when Seth started to cry; of Howe showing Seth all that was wrong with his clumsy sword stance.

"No. . ." He shook his head, eyes staring at the floor. "No, this isn't right."

Rory, who was observant enough to see what was happening and placed a hand on Seth's shoulder. "People change," he said. "You can't let it slow us down."

Those words worked their way into his head ( _You can't let it slow_ us _down_ ) and helped push everything back inside, so far inside the only feeling Seth had was that loose, clear and fast sense of his surroundings. His sense of clarity.

He started towards the Parafew, intending on getting to the living chambers, but Eleanor's hand on his wrist stopped him.

The look in her eye, and the shaking of her head nearly broke the hold he had on himself; the bounds he put in mere seconds ago started to waver already. He fought harder to push it down ( _I'll bring back the biggest sword I can find, Oren._ ) but there was a part of him that didn't want to fight at all ( _Be careful, Fergus. Promise me you'll be careful, my love?_ ).

"Seth," his mother, "we have to keep going." He didn't know how her voice could still be so even.

Ser Gilmore led, with Seth and the two soldiers closely following. Ahead was the side door that would lead to the Gathering hall.

Rory held up a hand, and without turning back yelled, "Protect the Teryna!" A second later he had his sword and shield out, and a second after a dozen or so plainly dressed soldiers came charging 'round the castle bend.

"Fall back!" Rory yelled.

Eleanor, with an arrow already knocked and pointed back toward the Parafew, shouted. "'Tis no use! We're surrounded!" And Seth could see how right she was. By his count there was twelve coming from the courtyard and at least five coming from the Parafew.

They were trapped between Howe's men.

Seth had enough time to think: _We can't make it to the door, we have to fall back to the treasury_ , before an arrow found its way into his shoulder.

Maker, did it hurt.

He looked up and spotted the soldier responsible – then everything down that end of the hall disappeared into a red light. The ground trembled and little pieces of something started to rain against his skin. He could smell the smoke before he noticed the south end of the hall was filled with it.

Everyone in the hall just stared, no one dared move. There was a faint scent of burnt meat.

The smoke started to clear, quite rapidly in fact, and Seth could see there was nothing but rubble – the walls were still dropping pieces of themselves to the floor. A figure appeared in the last of the smoke, it was standing where the dozen men had been before they were quite literally blown apart.

The figure waved at the already thin smoke. "I might have over done that," it said, sounding oddly cheerful.

Seth recognized the voice.

"It's the mage!" the shorter Cousland guard roared from beside Seth – Seth took the time to note the height difference between the two soldiers.

Rory having already recovered from the blast grabbed a handle of the situation. "Stand down! He just blew a dozen men to pieces. . . I'd rather he not does the same to us." The guards returned their twitchy hands to their sides and gave each other a look: _If he tries anything_ , it said.

There was the twang of a bow string – Eleanor's, Seth realized. "Stop gawking and turn around, fools!" she shouted. Seth did, remembering the other group of soldiers who were bearing down on them from the Parafew. The first thing he took note of was Terrance in front of his mother with his wooden kite shield and cheap, brittle sword held at the ready – the boy trembled like a scared animal. The second thing he noticed was that he couldn't lift his right arm. He didn't feel any pain now, and that worried him.

Someone brushed against his left shoulder – the one he could still feel – and continued on. It was the mage.

Eleanor let another arrow loose – it found its target.

Rory charged, flanked on each side by the two Cousland guard.

Tennant refused to leaves Seth's side. The hound had hunkered next to his knee and stared intently ahead at the oncoming group.

The eerie calm descended again and let Seth watch the fight unfold with uncanny accuracy. He saw Rory hide behind his shield a split second before reaching the pack, and without slowing, slam into the lead soldier. The blow pushed Rory back by a few steps, but it didn't matter. The shield tipped, and Rory's standard issue longsword flew out, burying itself in the downed soldiers gut – it disappeared by about four inches.

Four left.

The Cousland guards', screaming, pulled together, and the taller of the two started hacking away at the closest soldier. The soldier was barely able to fend off the blows, and whilst being forced to his knees, the smaller of the guard slipped behind the soldiers back and slammed a heavy mace into his helmeted head.

Three left.

Eleanor pulled out her last arrow, took in a slow breath, knocked, pulled, and released what seemed like a long sigh, relaxing her fingers. Seth could almost track the arrow as it flew down the hallway, wobbling through the air like a snake, until it nestled itself in the eye socket of one snarling soldier.

Two left.

Rory pulled his blade free, and with his shield bearing arm held out, twisted at the waist. The second last soldier, focused on charging after one of the two guards, found his vision clouded by steel grey, and then there was a crunch as his nose shattered against the cold surface of Rory's shield.

One left.

Seth watched Terrance take a step back – soon the last soldier would be on him. Seth started to run forward, his numb arm dangling uselessly after him, but stopped when he saw the mage, who was about two meters ahead, raise a hand at the charging soldier. There was a flash from the mages finger tips then a bolt of light – _electricity_ – flew out and over the squires shoulder. The soldier saw it coming and raised his sword in what looked like some last struggle. There was something like a whips crack when the arching bolt collided with the swords tip, and then the soldier screamed, staggered, and fell to the ground, smoldering.

Rory and the two guards relaxed. They started checking one another over for wounds and occasionally threw a distrustful glance at the mage. Terrance, shaking wildly, tried to put his blade away.

And Seth, with the skirmish won, took full stock of the arrow in his shoulder. Looking down at it made the room spin.

"Seth!" Eleanor screamed and ran to his side. She reached out to touch the arrow, hesitated, and instead choose to hold Seth's arm. "Oh, darling, you're so pale."

Is he? Every time he blinked the room spun a little faster.

"It's in deep." Rory was on his other side now. "This is the first time he's been hurt in a battle, isn't it?"

The room picked up more speed. All that Seth could see was the stone as they slowly started to become a blur of grey and lines. Then his view was blocked by blue, the blue moved, and a mud-covered face took its place. "I should be able to heal you," the mud-covered face said.

Rory protectively covered Seth's body with his own. "You'll do no such thing, _mage_."

Eleanor, still holding Seth's arm, looked thoughtfully at the arrow.

"Look," the mage said, not making eye contact with the glaring knight, "you let me help just then. Why can't you let me do this as well?" The loyal Mabari whined. The hound knew there was no time for arguing; he huffed at the knight to get his attention.

Seth's thoughts became. . . stuffy, as if they were shrouded in a fog.

"I know of magic, mage," Rory said, ignoring Tennant's round-eyed puppy dog stare. "I know that mages do not specialize in all schools of it. And you've made it abundantly obvious that destruction is your talent."

The mages eyes, ice-blue and so clear, almost flashed. "You don't _know_ what I'm capable of."

While the mage and knight argued, and the hound tried to mediate with nothing but barking and stares, Eleanor grabbed a hold of the arrow. Seth felt its length pushing and straining against all the muscle and bone and cartilage that were shoved aside when it came to rest in his shoulder.

And then Eleanor, sweating and pale herself, yanked the arrow out.

The projectile had time to echo some _tiks_ and _taks_ across the stone floor before being drowned out by Seth's almighty scream.

The room stopped spinning; Seth's mind had more important things to focus on now. He looked at his mother disbelievingly, but she was looking at the mage now, and both the mage and knight and hound were looking at her.

The mage grinned, _grinned_ , and held up a hand. "Looks like I'd better do something about that, "he said. "Unless you would rather watch him bleed to death?" Rory, arms crossed, took a step back.

The hand the mage was holding up erupted into a blue light, not unlike fire, and he hesitated, at touching the blood it seemed, but still laid the blue blaze on Seth's wounded shoulder.

"Work your fingers," the mage said.

Seth did. At first, they didn't move, he still couldn't feel his arm after all, but then his nails started to scratch on the stone floor, then his wrist unlocked, and he could move that, too. All the while his tingly shoulder (Deep within, it felt like his shoulder was cramping, like the muscles were going crazy in a confined space. _Snakes in a box_ , he thought.), tingly from the magic; stopped bleeding, started to ache, and slowly regained feeling as well. Once his arm started moving at the elbow, the blue light snapped out of existence.

The mage, who looked dazed, almost confused, gestured at Rory. "I haven't got much more left in me," he said. "You'll have to wrap it."

The knight knelt, and while looking at the mage, produced a clean length of cloth from below his chest plate. He started wrapping the wound.

Seth, his mind clear of the fog from earlier, continually clenched and unclenched his hand. "I don't know your name," he said, still looking at his hand.

The two guards who had been pacing at either end of the hallway before the healing had occurred begin their vigil again. Terrance, struggling to hide a look a wonder, helped Eleanor to her feet; Eleanor had been staring at the mage with that stare only a mother could produce. It was a stare that could see right through a person.

The mage, who had started to become more alert, become more _here_ , realized a very grateful hound had been licking his hand – he gave Tennant a scratch. "Ewan Amell," he says. "Mage of the Tower," then, "well, previous mage of the Tower, anyway."

"That's enough pleasantries." Rory had finished wrapping Seth's shoulder. "We've wasted far too much time here."

Eleanor nodded in agreement. "Yes. The Gathering hall is just beyond. Let us pray Bryce is there."

Rory took the lead again, followed by one of the guard, Seth (He can still make use of his wrapped sword arm, but he does not know how much use he'll get.), Tennant, Terrance, Eleanor, Ewan, and then the last guard.

Rory placed his hand on the handle and looked back at the group. All weapons were out and ready even if their wielders weren't.

Rory tipped his head at the group, looked at the door, and turned the handle.


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing Seth did as he charged into the Gathering hall behind the guard – the guard took an arrow to the thigh immediately, though Seth suspected that the man did not notice – was scan the crowd.

He saw a handful of Cousland guard spread out over the floor. He saw Howe's men pouring in through the now open double doorway. He saw Yevon, sword raised high, charging the pack.

He didn't see his father.

His mind began to jitter, stumble with panic. He pushed it inside and let the calm take over again.

It was then the battle began in earnest.

The Cousland guard led by Yevon clashed with Howe's soldiers just shy of the halls center. Yevon dispatched three clumsy swordsmen in four easy strokes, but more poured in to replace them.

"Guards, shields up!" Rory shouted. The two guards, with their shields high, charged with Ser Gilmore. Together the three made a moving wall of shield and human nearing three meters wide.

Seth and Tennant made a rush to the doorway as the three-man-wall smashed into the pack of Howe soldiers, throwing them off balance and making them easy prey for Yevon and his group.

As Seth neared the doorway – for a second he thought he could close it, that the battle will be over – a unit of four soldiers charged through, weapons out and eyes only for the young lord. Seth kept pace, holding both blades at his side, and prayed that his shoulder was up to the fight.

His first opponent swung too high, _too slow_ , and Seth ducked, spinning around the fight (Tennant was already leaping for the soldier's throat), and rose, coming face to face with two soldiers, who were both stunned by the sudden movement.

Seth took full advantage of this: swinging his body and left sword up and to the side, he nicked a throat – blood squirted out in a long stream almost at once. He then stepped – fighting against the momentum – rotating his body, lifting his right sword vertically to his body, and parried the other soldiers rushed blow. As his right sword caught the swing, drawing it in as if his arm was about to give way, he tilted his grip up – there was sparks as the soldier's sword flew high, dragging along the shaft of Seth's own blade. The blow flung up harmlessly overhead, and Seth, his body sideways to the soldier, lashed out with his left hand using the butt of his off sword to break an unsuspecting nose.

Then the last soldier pushed through his comrades and was upon Seth: right swing, block, left swing, block, thrust, dodge – this one had Seth on the defensive. Both of Seth's arms were rising and falling, adopting a pattern his mind was slowly taking note of.

And when the soldier thrust again Seth knew a downward chop was coming next. And when it did, he simply stepped to the side, and the soldier, having all that momentum, stumbled forwards landing on his hands and knees

Seth raised his right sword high, then brought the keen blade back down on the soldier's neck.

It's the first time Seth had beheaded someone. _And ten minutes ago you became a killer, as well_ , the Yevon in his head said.

Seth pushed the thoughts aside and scanned the room again. Yevon and Ser Gilmore had a handle on their own skirmish. Eleanor was raining down the last of her pilfered arrows. Tennant was again at his side.

And the doorway was open and clear.

Seth made a break for it again, taking note of the countless figures he could see charging beyond the courtyards smoky grounds.

"Get down, Seth!" it was a voice he barely recognized, but he dropped to his knees all the same.

The feeling was something he couldn't hope to fully explain; it was like in invisible weight passed overhead, and the weight was _hot_. Seth looked up in time to see a ball of red, no larger than both of his fists put together, flying out and through the open doorway.

And then, the very last thing he saw, before being knocked squarely back on his ass, was the ball pushing aside the plumes of smoke and showing there were, in fact, at least a hundred men and women clambering to cross the courtyard.

The explosion was both savage and magnificent. Seth didn't know if it was his body shaking from the blast or the keep itself trembling.

The courtyard was once again in flames.

"Close the gate, you fools! Now! _Now!_ " Yevon bellowed from behind.

Seth rolled to his side, and with shaky arms, pushed himself back to his feet. Around him the armored boots of Cousland guards stomped by. At least five men and women threw themselves against the large, very open doors. They were heavy things normally operated via chain that required at least three burly men to pull but under the circumstances those few soldiers were enough. After Yevon and Rory had cleared the dead from the doors path it was firmly shut and barred. A few of the guard collapsed to the ground after the effort while others began piling anything they could find to act as a barricade.

Rory took to directing the remaining troop. Some helped the injured. Some put down the invaders that were still drawing breath. This was not an act of mercy killing.

 _Why is Yevon not barking orders?_ Seth found himself thinking. The man had made himself scarce the moment the door had been closed.

He made his way to the back of the hall. The floors were slick with blood. All the work the servants had gone to a day prior had been undone. The tapestry was torn and burnt. Kegs of mead sat broken and leaking. The long oaken tables, once neatly aligned and polished, were being used as makeshift hospital beds if they weren't already flipped or splintered.

And there, by the doused fireplace, Guard-Master Yevon was slouched against the wall. His head hung low. What Seth could see of his beard was caked in blood. And he was not moving.

Eleanor held Yevon's hand in her own. She did not look at him.

"Yevon?" Seth said, taking a step forward. He stretched out a hand. A small part of him hoped the old man would look up and take it. Seth would help him to his feet and they would. . . live. But Yevon did not move and Seth's hand slowly returned to his side.

Terrance was the first to speak. "He just collapsed, my lord."

And it was true. After the battle had been won Yevon had allowed himself to succumb to the wounds that littered his body. Through sheer willpower the man had fought on to lead and protect those around him. As was his duty.

"Dammit, Yevon," said Eleanor. "I was convinced you'd outlive us all." She smiled lightly as she gently laid his hand to rest on the stone floor. "You did not deserve this."

Seth turned away, covering his face with his hands. They were trembling. He was trembling.

Everyone was dying. Everything was wrong. He couldn't do anything. It hurt _so_ much. And it was rising. The pain was overwhelming and spreading. Consuming.

"Darling, we have to keep going. We have to find your father."

Seth did not think it possible, but he pushed it all down again. Buried it along with everything else. His hands stopped shaking and fell to his sides, clenched so hard his knuckles began to creak.

"If Bryce isn't here he must've gone to the larder," Eleanor said. Her voice was even and commanding. "If he is waiting for us I do not know how much more time we can spare."

Ser Gilmore, satisfied with how the guard were handling the situation, jogged over to join the group. "The door won't hold for long. I suggest we-" he stopped. Silently and slowly he brought a hand to his heart, clutching at the armor in the way. "Maker no. No, it can't be," he said.

Rory lowered to one knee before the deceased Guard Master and began to mutter a chant so quietly Seth could not hear the words. Ser Gilmore believed in the chant of light. He took solace in it and what he believed it would do for Yevon and himself. Seth almost envied him for that.

When Rory was done he rose and stood at full attention. Arms folded behind his back and chin held high. "My lords, very shortly that door will be ripped down and we will all die. Use whatever time I can buy you to find the Teryn and escape."

Seth almost didn't register the words. _Time I can buy_. He looked at his best friend in disbelief. Rory intended on staying. He intended on dying.

"Rory, no," Seth said. "No not you too. Please come with us."

"Without Yevon the men need me here. I can be the difference you need."

"I don't care!" Seth screamed, unaware of the attention he was drawing. "I won't lose you, too!"

"You can't save everybody, Seth," Rory said. "It's okay. I'm okay with it. This is my duty."

Seth fell into silence. He couldn't muster the strength to argue. He couldn't even look Rory in the eye anymore.

"Take Terrance and live, Seth. This is the first and only thing I'll ever ask of you."

There was so much the young Cousland wanted to say. There was so much he wanted to do. More than anything he wanted drag Ser Gilmore kicking and screaming with them. More than anything he wanted to make sure someone lived.

Yet, he merely took Rory's hand in his own as one last handshake.

"Goodbye, Rory."

"Goodbye, Seth. Maker watch over you."

The two childhood friends turned and ran.

Ser Gilmore to a fate of his own choosing. A sacrifice in service to his lord and friend.

Seth Cousland to escape and live. To seek revenge on the man who'd wrought it all.

Neither noticed the tears that ran freely down their cheeks.


	5. Chapter 5

It was a small grace that the larder was located so close to the Gathering Hall. Seth was finding it hard to stop his mind from reviewing the events of the night now that halls were empty and there was naught to focus on. He'd gone through more effort than he'd ever known to bury it all. All the sorrow was hidden and left in its place were two driving forces. One was finding his father. The other, one he'd not considered 'till leaving the Gathering Hall, was finding Howe and simply killing him. He didn't have any grand ideas for how he'd do it. It'd only take one of his two borrowed swords to run that man through. It would be quick and clean.

And the young Cousland would feel better for it. Yes. He wouldn't be fixed, but he'd feel better.

Their group of survivors had become significantly smaller now. In the lead was Seth, followed by Ewan, the Teryna, and finally Terrance. Tennant was of course by Seth's side as always.

Seth was leading at a fast pace. Not exactly jogging nor was he sprinting. No-one in the group had spoken since leaving the Hall. There was no plan or formation now.

As the group neared the larder the sound of fighting in the rest of the keep was all but silent. The group was either too far from the main skirmish or the battle had simply been lost. He tried not to think of the latter.

Seth's run slowed to a jog, then a fast walk, and finally he stopped altogether at the kitchen door. He was the first to arrive. The rest of the group had yet to even 'round the bend. He reached for the handle without consideration. Over the sound of his own heart thumping loudly in his ears he did not hear anything in the kitchen beyond. Perhaps had he stopped to wait for the group, maybe caught his breath, he'd have heard the ravings of a madman on the opposite side. But Seth did neither or these things and flung the door open without a second thought.

:~:

"I'd hoped you would die with some dignity, Bryce," Howe moaned from opposite the larder door. The kitchen was deserted save for Howe and his three guard. These weren't his soldiers. No, he could not trust those blithering fools with his life. What he'd done was given a sizable pouch of gold to his most loyal servant and simply requested the best. Howe had not been disappointed. Three days before the march to Castle Cousland three men had arrived to answer his call. For the gold he'd spent he was paid in full with steel and brawn.

And thus far each had felled at least a dozen would be assailants.

Yes, surely this was a testament to how the Maker watched over his plans and approved of him taking what was rightfully his.

"Have you bled out already, Bryce? I would almost be disappointed to of not seen you meet your end," Howe said, pacing. He'd given explicit instruction to break the door down and break it down fast. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, he knew the wretched man he'd once called a friend would die. In fact, he was certain of it. Still on his person he kept the simple fillet knife as a trophy. This was weapon he'd done the dead with. The one that'd buried itself so easily into Bryce's belly. Two weeks prior it'd been enchanted by a maleficarum Howe's guard had procured from a Templar escort. No magic could heal the wound and it would never clot and never close.

The lengths he'd gone to for this plan to succeed. The heads that had rolled and the crimes he'd committed. And now here he was, separated from his goal by a very heavy, very oaken and very locked door.

"Break that damn thing down!" he shouted, "I'm paying you good gold. More gold than you have ever known. Do you understand that? Do you understand that the only thing you're failing to deliver on is breaking down a Maker damned door!"

Howe lashed out, venting his frustrations upon some unsuspecting dishware. He huffed and continued pacing, shouting, and cursing and goading.

:~:

The door was heavy and slow to open just like every other in the castle. The floor was uneven stone that he never noticed or tripped on. The lighting was poor, yet his vision had adjusted to the night some time ago. The kitchen remained untouched. But not unoccupied; for as the young Cousland strode into the room he was greeted to three heavily armored men and Arl Rendon Howe.

Two of the men stood stoically by the larder door as the third beat upon it with a large mallet. Howe meanwhile, caked in dried blood, paced directly opposite Seth, only blocked by a large wooden table about three meters long.

What Seth did next he accomplished through pure instinct. There was no anger, no rage, no thought at all; there was no teachings from the man called Yevon playing in the back of his mind.

Seth's vision narrowed and all he saw was Howe. With both swords drawn he began to run. After one foot both blades were at his side and ready. After two feet Howe'd turned and began shouting. After three feet the guard were rushing to move in their heavy armor. After four feet he was at top speed. After five feet he'd blacked out. After six feet he'd leapt onto the table. And, finally, from the table he launched himself at Howe. One of Seth's swords went through Howes chest, the other through his gut. There was no noise at all. Howe had no time to fight back, no time to move, no time to speak. Before the Arl could crumple under Seth's weight, leaving the two crashing to the stone floor, he was already dead.

Seth stayed straddling the man for a time. Even as the blood pooled across the floor, soaking his pants, he did not move. He just knelt there, hunched, heaving, still gripping his stolen swords.

Howes guard had tried to reach their benefactor yet three men wrapped in steel stood very little chance against the lightning Ewan threw from his fingertips as soon as the mage had entered the room. The bolt arched from one soldier to the next and culminated in all three dropping the floor, smoking through the cracks in their armor.

:~:

When Seth returned to his senses he'd moved to the wall. He was leaning on one shoulder silently staring ahead. He looked around, looked at his hands, his eyes were glassy and unfocused. He looked back up not entirely sure where he was or what had happened. But, when he saw the Arl of Amaranthine dead on the floor with two swords sticking out of him like some stuck pig he remembered very quickly.

"Seth?"

Ewan waved a hand in the noble's face. It seemed like he'd been trying to get Seth's attention for some time now.

"We have to go. Your fathers in the other room," Ewan looked away, "You need to come in."

"Is he okay? Where's my mother?"

Silence.

"Ewan, what happened?"

The mage stood up, stepping over Howe's body, still managing to track his loafers through the large pool of blood, and said. "I'm sorry. I tried to heal him but something the Arl did is stopping my magic," Ewan sounded frustrated. "It's blood magic. It's stronger than me."

The mage didn't go into the larder. Instead he leant against the wall, alone, and stared at the floor with his arms crossed. He looked to be deep in thought and disconnected from what was around him.

The young Cousland stood as fast as his wonky legs would allow. He staggered, tripping and stumbling over the dead. The larder seemed farther away with every step he took. Yet, when he reached the doorway he stopped, holding onto the frame, breathing deeply and preparing himself for what was inside.

He rounded the corner daring only to look up after he'd walked a few feet into the room.

In the corner opposite the door Terrance stood ram-rod straight. His eyes were red, misty and hot and he did not look at the young lord. Ahead and standing with his arms crossed, eyebrows frowning was the Grey Warden Duncan. By his feet Tennant laid, whining quietly.

And in the rooms center were his parents. Bryce lay prone on the floor with a hand clutching at a large red patch on his hip. Eleanor sat close, her husband's head resting on her thigh. She slowly ran her fingers through his hair.

Bryce was pale white and his lips were caked in blood but he was smiling up at his wife.

"Oh, my love, I'd forgotten how beautiful you look in your leathers. Just like all those years ago."

"Hush, Bryce. Save your strength," Eleanor replied, at a whisper.

"I'm afraid there's ought left. I think I'm spread well across the larder by now, my love."

His father was dying. Seth's whole body began to tremble. His legs wobbled, chin quivered, throat closed. He squeezed his eyes shut. Trying to hold the tears in was pointless. They came like the reality of the moment.

Soon his father would be dead.

"Come to me, pup. There's no point hiding in the corner. Come and let me see you one last time."

Seth dragged himself to his father's side, knelt, and took his hand. It was cold and heavy. Calloused and crooked from broken bones. His father had been a strong man.

"Maker, look at you. My boy."

"We-" Seth stuttered, rubbing at his eyes, trying to stop the damned tears, "we can heal you. I have poultices and Ewan's here."

"It's okay, pup. We tried it all. Looks like Howe'll get the last laugh from the Black City."

"We can take you with us, then. We can do something. We have to do something."

"No. No I'm afraid this is where I'll spend my last moments. You'd only be dragging a deadman."

Silence.

Seth griped his father's hand. "I'm not going to let you die. Please don't make me leave you here to die."

"I'm already dead, pup. All I ask is that you listen now," Bryce said with a hint of finality.

Seth nodded, defeated.

Bryce began slowly. "Castle Cousland is lost, pup, and I do not know what'll happen to our family after tonight. Our armies are gone. They're taken by the cause to the south as was your brother. You slew Howe yet his generals fight on. They will not stop until this place is smoke and ruins. I do not know if they will hunt you or if it'll end when the sun rises."

The lord of Highever stopped and looked up at his wife.

"Take your mother and leave this place. Travel to Ostagar and find your brother. You must abandon our lands and people. The Couslands will return here. I promise you that. But for now, you have to survive."

Eleanor smiled and chuckled, drawing her bow to her side. "I'll be staying, darling," she said. "I'll shoot every bastard that comes through that door. My place is here by your side. As it's always been." The Teryna hushed her husband with a look. "Do not ask me to leave you. You'll not move me from this spot."

Bryce gazed up at his wife for quite a while. He saw the fiery rebel he'd fallen in love with and knew, as much as it hurt, she'd not leave his side. That left his son. The boy who was barely a man.

"Pup," Bruce looked back to his son, "I'm so proud of you. You're the best parts of your mother and I. All these years; all the arguments; all the pranks; and all the mischief, I never stopped being proud of who you were and who you'll be."

"No. Please don't talk like that. Don't say it like I'll never see you again."

"Darling, it's okay," Eleanor, "This is what parents do for their children. We will stay here. We will make sure you live."

"And you will return one day and carry on our name. And we will always, always, be watching you from the Makers side."

"Please I can't do it. I can't leave you," Seth was pleading. Begging. He was desperate and scared. "Just come with me. I can carry you. We can run. Please."

Bryce only shook his head. "Duncan, my friend, I beg of you take my son and make sure he lives."

The Warden, who'd been observing silently by the larder door stepped forward upon being addressed. "It pains me to say this, lord Cousland, but I came here for a Warden, and I cannot leave empty handed."

A forced chuckle. "If that is the price we must pay, then we will pay it."

"Then I promise I'll see your son to Ostagar."

For Seth the room started to spin. There was no acceptance of the situation. He'd descended into the hysteria of a trapped animal. He was falling and very soon he'd hit rock bottom.

"No. . . No I'm not leaving. You can't make me. He can't make me. I can still fight. I'd rather die than leave here. It doesn't have to be like this," broken heavy silence followed.

"I love you both so much."

The Teryn and Teryna of Castle Cousland smiled. They held their sons hand and said their final piece. Their final goodbyes.

"I love you, darling. We're so proud of you. No matter where you go or what you do, we'll always be proud."

"You'll do great things, pup. Don't forget who you are and that we're always with you. You are a Cousland and Coulsand's always do what must be done."

The words of his father, the vision of his mother, the pain and fear he felt all churned deep inside. In a moment the whole night, all the turmoil he'd worked so hard to keep bottled away, came back very quickly and very hard. He sobbed quietly holding his parents. He told them he would not leave. He told them they would not die.

He told them how much he loved them.

Seth had fallen to the deep dark bottom. Where he went now would be slow and it would be hard.

But, the darkness did not care. It washed over him indiscriminately taking everything away.

Whether he would forgive the Warden Commander for clouting the back of his skull remained to be seen. Maybe he never would.

And so it went that Seth Cousland was dragged, unconscious, from his home on that fateful night. Everything he had known was gone and, when he would wake, nothing would ever be the same again.


End file.
